Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

One night, she disappeared. The staff were thrown into turmoil, and everyone was out scouring the gardens, then the streets beyond, calling her name. I sat in darkness in my chambers. I had no heart to search, but sought oblivion in liquor. Steeped in gloomy feelings, I thought Simew had gone to find herself a troupe of torn cats, who like her had been turned into men by the imprudent longings of cat-loving women. No doubt I, with my over-civilized human senses, could no longer satisfy her. She would return in the morning, once she thought she’d punished me enough.

But she did not return. Days passed and the atmosphere in the house was as dour as if a death had taken place. I saw reproach in the faces of all my servants. Dishes were slammed onto tables; my food was never quite hot enough. One evening, my rage erupted and I called them all together in the main hall. “If I don’t see some improvement in your duties, you are all dismissed!” I cried. “Simew is gone. She is not of our world, and I am not to blame for her disappearance. Her cat nature took over, that’s all.”

They departed silently, back to their own quarters, no doubt to continue gossiping about me, but from that night on, some kind of normality was resumed in the running of the house.

After they had left, I went to stand before the portrait of Pu-ryah, resolving that in the morning, I would have it taken down. I heard a cough behind me and turned to find Medoth standing there. I sighed. “If she is a mother, she is cruel,” I said.

Medoth came to my side. “You put much into that work, my lord. Some might say too much. It has great power.”

I nodded. “Indeed it has. I thought I could brave Pu-ryah’s fire, but I was wrong, and now I am burned away.”

“Your experiences have been distressing,” Medoth agreed. He paused. “Might I suggest you make a gift of this painting to the temple of the Lady? I am sure they would appreciate it.”

“Yes. A good idea, Medoth. See to it tomorrow, would you?”

He bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

I began to walk away, toward my empty chambers.

“My lord,” Medoth said.

I paused and turned. “Yes?”

He hesitated and then said. “One day, you will miss her as we do. She only obeyed her nature. She loved you very much.”

I was about to reprimand him for such importunate remarks, but then weariness overtook me. I sighed again. “I know, Medoth.”

“Perhaps you should acquire another little cat.”

I laughed bleakly. “No. I don’t think so.”

I did see Simew again. After some years had passed, she came back occasionally, to visit the servants, I think. Sometimes, I found fowl carcasses they had left out for her in the garden. Sometimes, alone in my bed late at night, I would hear music coming from the servants’ quarters and the joyful peal of that unmistakable laugh. To me, she showed herself only once.

It was a summer evening and dusk had fallen. I went out into the garden, filled with a quiet sadness, yet strangely content in the peace of the hedged walkways. I strolled right to the end of my property, to the high wall that hid my domain from the street beyond. It was there I heard a soft chirrup.

A shiver passed through me and I looked up. She was there, crouching on the wall above me, her hair hanging down and her eyes flashing at me through the dusk. She was clothed, I remember that, in some dark, close-fitting attire that must be suitable for her nocturnal excursions. Where was she living now? How was she living? I wanted to know these things, and called her name softly. In that moment, I believe there could have been some reconciliation between us, had she desired it.

She looked at me with affection, I think, but not for very long. I did not see judgment in her eyes, for she was essentially a cat; an animal who will, for a time, forgive our cruel words and unjust kicks. A cat loves us unconditionally, but unlike a dog, she will not accept continual harsh treatment. She runs away. She finds another home.

My eyes filled with tears and when I wiped them away, Simew had gone. I never married again.

The Faerie Cony-catcher Delia Sherman